Quicksilver has been rewritten!
by Scratch O'Brien
Summary: Please check out the rewrite under the name QUICKSILVER.
1. Mercury

**I don't own _Newsies_. I probably shouldn't be starting a new story, but I am going into anyway, becaue I'm stupid like that. I'm looking for characters... and I'll need 'em! I'll give you credit! Please? But you have to read my story. And review it. I'm so mean. Also, the term "bullcrackers" I got from _the Journey of Natty Gann_, another great movie owned by Disney. The feminine wiles thing came from Susan Bartellotti Campbell, author of_ Kids on Strike!_ I don't claim ownership over any of the quotes or the movie/books they are from,** **either. Pallas (as in Pallas Athena) is the Greek goddess of wisdom. Remember that. Also, this was a re-write on the first chapter... I made a mistake with the date!**

**-:-**

_All for one and one for all -- that is our motto, is it not?_

_from_ The Three Musketeers_, by Alexandre Dumas_

**-:-**

_July 1899_

I woke up and rolled over. Another night spent on the streets in the bitter, sticky, sooty New York-kinda-summer-morning air with a few girls I barely knew, yet more that I did, and trusted all of them, for that was our creed. Never hurt another street rat, unless they first hurt you, that is. For that's what we are: street rats, trash, nothing. Absolutly nothing. We girl newsies sleep together in the streets for safety and warmth, for there was no place for us at a boys' lodging house unless you were lucky enough to have no chest (though due to malnutrition most of our chests had lack of volume) and a brother or good (male) friend who could cover for you, and girls' lodging houses made you wear skirts, and for our trade skirts didn't go over to well.

I sat up and shook my little sister next to me. Little Becca. Dark brown hair that was a shade off from black with an almost-curl, baby-fine and wispy fell in her eyes. She woke up from her deep toddler sleep, stood, and yawned before burying her little face into my shoulder and murmuring that she "wan more sweep." I sighed. Poor little kid. Where the baby fat of an average (well, an average well-fed kid... the average kid her in NYC isn't well-fed) three-year old should be in her little face and hands there was none. I was lucky enough to have boots to put on her feet and a smock on her back. My own apparel was less than fashionable. We were alway poor, but somehow mother always managed to dress me in a blue dress to "set off my eyes." (She gave up on white lacey frocks as soon as I learned to play marbles in the streets with my friends and how fun mud wrestling is.) My eyes aren't really anything to gawk at though. Golly gee, another pair of blue eyes in Manhatten! Whoop-dee-dee. I liked Becca's sea-green eyes with a dark blue rim better. She'll be a pretty girl when she grows up.

If she grows up.

I told Becca no more sleep, then woke up my companions. Flash, Deep, Spades, Wreck, Sevens, Bucky, Time-It, Brew and Moan. We in turn woke the girls we didn't know, then headed off without them.

We passed by the nun cart, grabbed our bread and watery coffee with grounds in the brew, and headed off to the distribution office.

It was going to be a fine day.

Yeah, right.

Our daily routine was always the same; nothing changed but the headlines.We bought our papers, hawked our headlines, most girls being pretty enough to use their feminine wiles, but I had nothing but a loud voice, an imagination that had been encouraged as a young child, and a little sister named Becca, which was fine by me. Being ugly has it's advantages so long as you come to terms with your lack of beauty; no creepy strangers hitting on you, no guy wants to use you, and if you're ugly, you might as well be invisible.

Which is why I hear things. Lot's of things. I knew about Mush and Flips breaking up before Mush himself did. I know the headlines before everyone. Heck, I even know why Crutchy uses a crutch and that Blink doesn't really need an eyepatch.

I'm ugly. I'm invisible. I'm a newsie. I have a temper that risies as quicker than you can belive.

My name's Mercury. Mercury Pallas, of Manhatten.

I got it because I run. Fast. Fast as mercury rises.

**-:-**

My hair is long, so long that the weight of it straitens it out and I curls at the bottom but none at the top. My eyes are a blue-gray, more blue than gray , with darker blue flecks. I'm about four feet, six inches. So, yeah, I'm short. Don't try to make something out of it unless you have death wish, punk. My hair is brown, nothing more, nothing less. I don't give a frick about what my grandmother used to ramble on about how my hair was like the gold spun from straw by Rumplestiltzkin. It's bullcrackers. My feet are long and narrow, and I weigh about eighty pounds (I know that thanks to the lovely charity organzation that gets us all free checkups at the doc's each year. Yeah, right.) my hands are slender, and my fingers long and ink-stained. I'm pretty much a twig with arm and legs and slight curves. Very slight. As in about an two or three inches more around than the rest of me. I have more legs than torso, and a face that used to be round but now has hollow cheeks, thanks to our daily fare of stale coffee and newspapers. My chin is pointed, and I have pointed ears. I look like a fox. Or an elf, depending on if you like me or not. I have freckles. And I'm as white as a sheet. I've said it before, I'll say it again: I'm ugly.

I wear an off-white shirt, and a dusty brown vest with mossy-brown-green pinstripes, and a light grey-brownish jacket, and used-to-be-my-brother's-black-but-are-now-my-really-really-dark-grey-that-are-becoming-ankle-biters trousers. My suspenders are black, and boots are sienna. Got a good mental description? If you do I hope you're not scarred. Now let's get on with our story.

We all bought our papers at the office. There was a baby born with two heads, a trash fire on Ellis, and some sports scores, but I don't like to shout those out because the losing teams' fan like to take their outrage out on us newsies. Flash, my friend with choppy blonde hair cut off at her delicate chin had a round face and eyes a light brown. Lucky girl had a gorgeous smile, was five five, and had the guys at her heels. Deep and Wreck were twins-- black hair, almost acid green eyes, square face, and they always had a circumspeted look on their lightly tanned faces, raised five feet and eleven inches off the ground in their shoes. Spades was cute and Italian, and you knew when she was ticked because boy that girl can scream. Sevens was brown. Just brown. Brown hair, brown eye, tanned skin, brown clothes. Bucky was tall and slender, and looked like Flash, exept her hair was longer and darker. (Buckys', that is.), Time-It had thin platinum hair, which went well with her very light grey eyes, in a pixie cut tucked up under a black bowler with a small purple feather in the band. Brew was of heavy build, but don't you dare call that girl fat. You'll feel her tan-brown eye burning in your skull and you'll want to diasspear. And Moan. Moan... Moan had black hair, and black eyes, and a black heart. That girl was cold. Just... cold. Years on the streets had made her that way.

Same as all of us. But we all have each other... I think that's why we all are at least somewhat human. We just hadn't met Moan quick enough. She was the least human of us all.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

**-:-**

**Ooh! Cliffie! Kinda... well, send a review, and if I'm nice I'll put up a new chapter!**

**Here's the sent-in character template... I really need your characters, and if you want to send in a guy AND a girl I'll luv you forvever!**

**Name:**

**Age:**

**Physical description: (includes hair color and length, eye color, clothing, ect. More detail, more likely you are to get in. I would advise to go as far as shape of face, lip, eyes, and instead of jut plain brown hair, why not have blonde-brown, dishwater brown,or auburn?)**

**Personality:**

**Boy paired up with: (I'll be basing pairs off depending on your personality and who gets whom first and if it fits in with my story. If you're nice, and sweet, and perfect, and you want to be paired with Skittery, it's not happening. Sorry.)**

**Quirks: (because if you're perfect I'm not using you.)**

**History: (please not all that many sob stories. How about a runaway or two instead of an orphan, eh?)**

**And only if you review this chapter. I won't use all of them... just the ones with the most detail. Thanks!**

* * *


	2. Monday Through Sunday

**Yay! I got a characters to work with! Woot! But you must review all my chapters! Mwa-ha-ha. **

**I won't be able to use most of you until the strike, but I _will_ use you! **

**I don't own _Newsies_. I never have claimed to own _Newsies_. I never will. If I did, however, I would share them with you all, along with some homemade chocolate chip cookies. But I have niether. Sorry, kids!**

_I like my town_

_With a little drop of poison..._

_-Captain Hook,_ Shrek Two

-:-

We took our papers and headed off to the places where we thought the stories would sell most. Some newsies have a "sellin' spot"; clever, but not really. Seriously, are you gonna talk to men at the racetracks about miracle medicine for little children? No. You're gonna talk to mothers and nannies taking little children for walks in Central Park. In other words, sellin' spots are crap.

Spades, always one with a quick eye, grabbed a brown paper bag of apples from a lady's shopping basket. Taking out her pocket knife, she quickly divided the four apples evenly between all of us (including Becca.)

"Thanks," we older girls acknowledged her kindness with.

Becca, who didn't say much, just gave Spades a hug.

And off we went to face the city.

-:-

It really doesn't take much to sell papers.

To sell them well it does.

You have to like what you do. Can you imaging coughing, screaming, cheating, sprinting from the cops, living in alleyways, eating your leftover papers, and running back to the distribution office to do it all over again for as many editions as Pulitzer decides to print out to cover all the news, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, three hundread and sixty-five days a year , for as many years as you're cute enough?

If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.

But we can. And so we cough, scream, sprint, live in alleyways, eat our leftover papes, and run to the distribution office to do it all over again for as many editions as Pulitzer decides to print out to cover all the news, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, three hundread and sixty-five days a year , for as many years as we're cute enough.

And we stick together; in a town as tough as here, it's all you can do.

Unless you're beaten to death for your jacket first, that is.


	3. Off to Brooklyn

**Some of the dialouge in this chapter was taken directly from the movie, maybe copied to this story with some human error, because my memory isn't that great. I do not claim to own any of this dialouge. It is owned by Disney. I have taken liberties with whom the dialouge is directed at, though...**

AFTERNOON OF THE NEXT DAY

"They jacked up the price! Can you belive this, ten cents a hundered! You know, it's bad enough that we gotta eat what we don't sell. Now the jacked up the price!"

"Blink. Breathe." Said Brew.

Blink didn't breathe, and he and Jack continued with their conversation. We girls dove off in our own conversation.

Les said "Strike!"

And so it all started.

FIVE MINUTES LATER

I got sent to Brooklyn. Yeah. Hate Brooklyn. Not scared of it, hate it. The harbor smell, the leering people. Good thing I'm unattractive. If I was tall, blonde, and pretty, I'd... yeah.

So I never go to Brooklyn, and I've never met their leader. Oh, I've seen him... just never met. The only reason I got sent because I am "persistant and persuasive" as our love-er-ly Manhatten leader put it. What he meant is I'm annoying, a fair fighter and ugly, so I can bug Conlon, and Jack and Boots and David won't have to worry about me because even if someone does try anything, they'll never mess with me again.

"Well if it ain't Jack be nimble, Jack be quick."

"I see you moved up in the world. Spot. Got a river view and everything."

The leaders shook.

"Heya Boots. How's it rollin'? "

"Got a couple of real good shooters." Please take note that King of Cowboys, our _leader,_ forgot a peace offering.

Loading his slingshot and taking aim at some bottles full of alcohol (as much as he tries to hide it, Conlon doesn't like Brooklyn to be represented by alcohol) he begins: "Yeah. So, Jacky-boy. I've been hearing things from little birdies. Things from Harlem, Queens, all over. They been chirpin' in my ear. Jacky-boy's newsies is playing like they goin' on strike.l

"Yeah, well we are." Our leader is such an airhead. Boots and I stood by silently. I don't know what was going through Boots's head, but I do know that I was thinking that had to be the most idiotic anwser I have ever heard.

"But we're not playing. We are going on strike." I stand corrected. David beat Jack at being the biggest muttonhead!

"Oh yeah? Yeah?" Conlon turned to Jack. "What is this, Jacky-boy? Some kind of walking mouth?"

"Yeah, it's a mouth. A mouth with a brain, and if you got half a one, you'll listen to what he's got to say."

David nervously began. "Well, we started the strike, but we can't do it alone. So we've been talking to newsies all around the city."

"Yeah, so they told me. But what'd they tell you?"

"They're waiting to see what Spot Conlon is doing, you're the key. That Spot Conlon is the most respected and famous newsie in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they join and we'll be unstoppable. So you gotta join, I mean... well, you gotta!"

Well, maybe not so dumb after all... kissing up to Brooklyn is pretty much the only way to get anything from them without bribing them.

"You're right Jacky-boy, brains. But I got brains too, and more than just half a one. How do I know you punks won't run the first time some goon comes at ya with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?"

"Because I'm telling you, Spot." Well telling him isn't working, is it?

"That ain't good enough Jacky-boy. You gotta show me... unless the girl over here has something to say." He nodded in my direction. We were all just quiet for a moment before Conlon continued, "What, did you just bring her along to look pretty?" He had this little smirk on his face.

So I started. "If you're afraid we won't win, don't be. Because if you join us, we will win. There's no other thing that can happen. If you join with us, then other newsies will join; Harlem, West Side, the battery kids, all of 'em. With no newsies selling papers, Pulitzer and Hearst'll have to bring the price back down." I let this idea sink in. "So join," I finished.

Spot Conlon, our key to winning this thing stood up. "Well, I guess she _can_ do more than look pretty," he began. Taking his cane from his belt loop, he tucked the gilded knob under my chin and tilted my face up toward him. I glared, which only made his smirk grow larger. Knob still under my chin, He twisted my head back and forth, and up higher, and lower. "I didn't know you knew I liked girls with blue eyes, Jacky." He released me to continue his examination. "Pretty. She's a good height for me too." _Good height for him?_ I muttered some profanity. He chuckled. I was about five inches shorter than he. He took me by my shoulders and pushed me away from him to inspect me from afar, his eyes traveling up and down my front (Why wasn't our leader doing anything? Or, better yet, why wasn't I?) before turning me around and examining me from behind. I glowered throughout. I heard chuckles from the Brooklyn boys throughout, so I made sure to share my scowl with the low life cravens. "But it's going to take more than a pretty face and blue eyes to convince me," he finished, before turning his smug face away from us.

I supposed that meant our conference was over.

As our little troop left the docks, I heard Conlons voice talking to his boys: "Wonder how old she is..." I was pissed, let's just leave it at that.

* * *

**Well, here you go Bittah! Hope you enjoyed it!**


	4. It Doesn't Matter

BACK IN MANHATTEN

I could kill Conlon.

Everyone knows that I just don't like to be told I'm attractive. Why waste your breath telling me something that's not true?

-:-

After telling them about what will from now on be referred to as the "Brooklyn Incident", and rambling about how hideous I was, I was instantly contradicted.

Spades told me my hair was "Pretty! Really, I mean it!"

Time-It enthusiastically nodded her agreement.

"Your eyes are quite a rare color!" Chimed in Flash.

These shallow comments and several others like them were given by my friends; well, all besides Moan... but she has bigger issues.

I was tired of this. "Honestly, it doesn't matter."

"Yes it does!" Wreck cried.

"No, it doesn't."

"It will if you start again." Moan's quiet, icy voice said.

We all turned to look at Moan, who hadn't even turned to look at us when she spoke, and then all eyes, including my own and Moan's, to my bared left arm, which was sitting bottom up. The scars had faded considerably well; you wouldn't see them at unless you knew to look and where exactly.

-:-

_I had about three minutes alone with the jackknife. It was the right arm's turn today. I quickly rolled up my sleeve._

_The blade of the knife touched my skin; cool metal. I didn't cut, not yet; I just merely relished in the fact that the blade was there._

_I slid the blade slowly, surely. Four like this, two and a half inches long, then one diagonally across the four. Like tallies. Two of these patterns were completed and I had started on the third, when I head Deep's voice._

_"Mercury,_ stop_!"_

_I stopped willingly. Set the knife down. What I really wanted was the pain, and the pain only came when I stopped actually cutting. _

_Oh, sweet pain._

-:-

Would you like to hear more? I can't belive I'm telling you all this, you, a stranger, what I wouldn't even tell my own mother. As if she would care.

My father hated me. In his family, you must look absolutely perfect. Ironed shirts and shirtwaits, no rolled up sleeves, boots polished and tied.

Perfect facial features.

On both sides of my family, being a tomboy was frowned upon. So obviously I failed all these tests.

I honestly don't know what happened; I was a pretty little girl.

Well, too late now.

-:-

I woke up really late at night. Or really early in the morning. Couldn't tell. I had the sudden urge to cut something. Not myself, of course.

Well, actually, I really, really, _really_ did want to cut myself, but I restrained. Last time I had this urge was October. I cut up my shirt sleeves. Bad idea, especially in that cold weather. It took me two months to find another shirt.

So this time, I settled on my hair. It was July, right? And I have my hat.

I took Spades's pocket knife from her pocket. I took off my hat, and unbraided my one long braid, shaking it out and finger combing it.

I flipped my head upside down. Taking the knife, I set it against my hair, about two inches down from my forehead, blade pointing out. (I would be hacking at these thick strands, and I didn't want to slice my throat open.) I sawed through the strands. About halfway through the haircut, I realized my hair would be roughly shorter in the front and longer in the back, and I would have a two-inch fringe on my forehead. I kept cutting anyway.

Finished. I flipped my hair back up, and shook my head. Already the fringe was ticking me off.

Deciding I could just filch some small barettes later, I closed the knife and tucked it back into Spade's pocket. I gathered up the hair. I wasn't going to sell it. They wouldn't take it anyway. I pulled on my hat and went back to sleep.

* * *

**And her past is revealed! At least part...**

**Read and review!**


	5. Egads!

**Please forgive my liberties with the movie... I can't exactly use the Size the Day Chorale in here, so I had to edit it. I don't own _Newsies_. I do not lock up Pie Eater in the kitchen and make him bake me a variety or delicious pies every day, nor do I make him sleep near the fireplace on a reed mat and get covered in cinders. I do not have Boots in a Ziploc in the freezer, and Spot is not in my closet. Blink and Bumlets aren't trapped in my snowglobe, and who told you Mush is dancing with the ballerina in my jewelry box? Hope you enjoy :-)**

"Egads, Mercury! What did you do to your hair?"

"Cut it."

"How!?"

"The knife in your pocket, Spades!" She looked hurt at this comment. Well, I should have been more gentle. "I'm sorry, Spades. It's not your fault." While all this was going on, Time-It was inspecting my lower arms for cut marks. Suddenly she bent down.

"Take off your boots, Mercury," She demaded.

"Why?" I said, taking them off.

"You're smart. You would've cut where we wouldn't a of looked: on your ankles. I need to check your lower back, too."

I heaved a sigh. "Done yet?"

"Yeah."

I headed off, Becca in tow.

"Why were the looking at you?" Becca asked.

"To make sure I hand't hurt myself while cutting my hair."

"Alwight. Can I hold some papers today? Pweese?"

"Becca, we're not selling papers anymore."

"Oh, yeah!" She smiled. "Oh, why?"

We had reached the distribution office. "Remember yesterday? We tore up all those papers? It's because Mr. Pulitzer raised the papers' price to us and we can't pay for that."

"I remember! I got to spin on a wagon wheel! And play Indians with Blink and Snitch!" She smiled.

"That's right." I didn't metion that Crutchy had been taken. But that's because I also knew that Jack and that Davey had gone to get him.

As we waited near the Horace Greely Statue, I relived yesterday. Tearing up papers, mocking Weasel. Boots and I had danced the polka together, ripping papers with our feet as we went.

I saw Jack. Leaving Becca to watch poker or whatever card game some boys happened to be playing at the moment, I went to go talk to out leader. "Where's Crutchy?"

Jack stiffened. "He didn't come. The Delancy's got him beat real good, so good he needed his crutch and another kid to walk the few feet to the window. And he didn't want us to carry him out."

"Oh." What did he mean by window? The bedrooms were all too high to climb out of. I let it go.

"I'll make sure nobody tells Becca."

"Thanks."

Well, I'll admit it, there was a rumor going around that "Mercury likes Crutchy!" But, honestly, we just lived next to each other. We used to do everything best friends do together; chuck stones at birds, filch apples, that sort of thing. It never really mattered to either of us that he used a crutch or that I was homely looking. We we're -are- just best friends. His mother was like my mother, before she died. Crutch and I just kinda migrated here after that.

We all made sort of a wall in front of the gates. Then a cart came out. In a flurry of people, we all rushed out of the way, cursing Pulitzer. We quickly formed back up.

"C'mon, you graftahs, cross the line." I looked to my left and there was Racetrack.

Dave looked around nervously. "All right, everyone, remain calm." I exchanged a look with Moan, to my right. We both began rolling up our sleeves at the same time.

"Let's soak 'em for Crutchy!" Jack exclaimed, after a pause. With a general hullaballoo, we all chasecd after the scabs.

"Les, take Becca. Both of you, stay away from the center of the fight. Stand next to some bigger boys. Gotta run." And I ran.

I was near the front of the line when I heard "Oh, Jack, Jack, it's a trick! Jack!"

I tried to see what was happening. I found out soon enough, being the only one stupid enough not to back up. I saw men, of course. Men. Holding chains and clubs.

It wasn't too hard to figure out we we're gonna get soaked.

* * *

**Oh, suspense! Will Mercury get soaked? Will Crutchy come back anytime soon? Will Spot ever escape from my closet? Read and review, as always!**


	6. Could A Boy?

**FIRST OF ALL: this is kinda a rewrite. I replaced the entire chapter just to correct one spelling error. So you must love me, and review all my stories, especially _Merely Me and the Cat_.**

**Okay, Bittah, here you are; but I am not putting up anymore until someone reviews more of _Merely Me and the Cat_ and _Time Warp_. Not "or", "and". AND! So do it! **

**...anywho...**

**...the most faithful reviewer who submitted a character that is a newsie is... xLittlexItalyx! Yay you! To Lavendar26: Sharon is comin' up... I can't exactly have her here. As for my other reviewers that submitted characters: these two reviewed the most. Remember, there is still time! You want your character in here? Review the rest of my chapters! Please? I love you, but I had to narrow it down. So...**

**--Ashley "Sawyer" Greco belongs to xLittlexItalyx (I only mention her this time... sorry!)**

**--All other characters unfamiliar to the Disney movie are mine. **

**Also, did you know that the real newsboys thought it a blow to their intelligence that the newspapers quoted them phonetically? Like, instead of saying "You make the best jelly doughnuts" the papers would say "Ya make de best jelly doughnuts.". So I have decided to stop writing the accent in like that. Use your imagination. :)**

-:-

_All serious daring starts from within._

_--Harriet Beecher Stowe_

-:-

I blocked a punch. Then another. Then as I was about to lollop the second scab who took a swing at me, I took a hit from one of his buddies.

I can fight fairly, but I will admit it's because I can't think clearly. Well, I can, it's just that I don't remember what I was thinking. But I usually come out unscathed. I don't know if it would be so this time, though. The fight usually just comes bubbling out of me; but this time I wasn't feeling the anger, the will, the conviction. The second guy had moved on, but the third --coincidentally, he was also looked three times my size, (in total volume, anyway; he wasn't thirteen and a half feet tall) which isn't very overly big to most people, but I'm four and a half feet and had been depraved of regular meals for two years-- was still on my case. I saw a flash of Sawyer. She had thrown him to the ground with a flying tackle.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

We both darted away before he could get back up on his feet again.

Chaos was everywhere. The threatning clink of chains, the yells, the sound that knuckles make when they collide with a face, it was all there. I flitted through the crowd. A chain almost collided with my left shoulder. The scab had busted the left side of my chin; it was distracting me with it's knifelike, throbbing pains. I heard metal clang and looked up to see boys varying in ages landing on fire escapes. Other boys who I assumed were their companions were perched on the rooftops surrounding the distribution office, already loading slingshots. I thought it just as Mush called it, except our tones were entirely different.

"Brooklyn!" he cried ecstastically.

_Brooklyn!_ I inwardly muttered with resentment just as a pebble narrowly missed my ear. "I'm a newsie, idiot!" I called. "How about aiming at the scabs instead, eh?" I tuned just in time to see Jack glaring at me. I stuck my tounge out at him.

"That was mature, Mercury."

"Those ninnies can't aim worth their mother's--"

"Mercury. Not. Now." I was fine with that. I punched a guy to his chin and turned to deck another one but he caught my wrists. I wriggled, trying to get out, but his grip just tightened. My hands were going all tingly. I was pushed to the ground, face down. I grazed my left cheek and the already tender left side of my chin. Why was everything aiming at the left side of me today? I rolled face up and sent up a decoy kick with my left (there it is again!) foot. The twit grabbed my left foot with both hands leaving me the scant half-second it took to kick him right where it counted with my stronger right foot. I got up and spurted away.

His Majesty of the Most Honorable Burough of Brooklyn had already cried out the famous "Never fear, Brookln's here!" and I shall admit I was rather delighted... no, that's not the word; I blushed with the thought of associating him with the word "delighted". Relieved was it. I was relieved we weren't on our own on this. I blocked the umpteenth punch thrown at me today. A man ran into me as one of my own pushed him.

He smiled nefariously. "Oh, hello there little g--" I aimed to kick him and almost made contact with his shin before I was pulled out of the fight by my right elbow.

"Hey! What was that all abou--" I turned, fist raised, to see _him._ Blue eyes, smirk, cane and all. I angered even more. "I can handle myself!"

"No, you can't," he almost seemed genuinely concerned as he pulled me behind him.

"Yes, I can." I had just thrown this last indignant retort at the back of his head when the man I had nearly kicked picked me up and threw me at Spot, obviously intending to injure us both. The plan didn't suceed. Conlon turned and caught me. He clipped the attacker, then kneed him in the stomach before yanking me away.

"What are you, a feather?" he asked me as he drew his cane and ran straight into the next knot of scabs and newsies.

"No!" I ran to the opposite side of the same knot, punching and kicking and elbowing at the scabs.

"You weigh just about as much as one." I heard the smirk in his voice.

Oh, I knew where that taunt was going. "I can handle myself!"

We had finished breaking apart the group of friends and foes, and were standing a foot and a half apart, facing one another. He took a short step and closed the distance between us. I hadn't seen him do it, but the cane was back in it's customary belt loop. He leaned in without hesiation, and whispered in my ear:

"Maybe I like helping you," came the gentle, breathy murmer.

Without another look at me he walked the way his head was facing, a few inches to my right. He brushed me as he passed. I hadn't known until he was gone, but his fingertips had rested on my elbows as he spoke to me.

Nevermind. No time for that now. I raised my guard, expecting more of our adversaries to attack me, but then I realized that if they had wanted to hurt me, they would have done so moments ago when he had...

I stopped myself. I could not think about that possibility. It's not that I was thinking about the possibility that someone outside the family could love me. I already knew they did; the newsies were my brothers and sisters; I knew it hurt them that I wouldn't let them become close to me, but that's the way I was and they kept trying so I knew they cared. But I mean could a boy care for me like the Charming Princes cared for Snow White and Cinderella and Aurora the Sleeping Beauty? Would a boy ever be willing to travel into a deep forest and cry over me after convincing seven dwarves to open my crystal coffin, then find that I was merely unconcious and awake me then take me back to his kingdom on a snowy white stallion? Would he search all over to find me with only a glass slipper as a clue? Would he fight dragons and briers to free me from an evil curse after I pricked my finger upon a spinning wheel? _I'm not special enough; I'm not pretty enough; smart enough... I'm not enough of anything for him. For any of them._ I forced these poisoning thoughts and other's that I cannot recall (for the best, perhaps) to twist and squirm and weasle their way into my mind. Thankfully not my soul. Or else I would have ended up like Moan.

I heard shouts of jubilation, and turned to see the newsies laughing. I had already figured out the scabs had surrendered, at least for the day. I walked over to the group standing near the grate through which we once traded pennies for papers. I hoisted up Becca and sat her on my hip. She smiled at me. Les was to my right. We were next to Cowboy; he stood dead center (surprise, surprise). I heard someone shouting at us to hold still. I looked up and saw a camera pointed at us. So I smiled a little Mona-Lisa like smile and held still. I felt a weight drape itself on my shoulders and turned at the exact moment to camera clicked to find Spot right next to me. I'm sure you can guess what the weight was.

The only two people smiling at the camera were Becca and Mr. Kelly.


	7. An Early Morning Note From the Author

_Sunday, August 25th, 2007, 02:40 hours (2:40 a.m.)_

_Dear reviewers:_

_I am rather attached to this story. I always try to prevent it, but for some reason I keep slipping parts of me into my characters._

_So, I have dcided, that this story will be put on hold while I rewrite it._

_Yes, rewrite it._

_Why, you may ask? Well, look in a mirror! No, I'm serious. You are the answer. I am doing it for those of you who stuck through my annoyingly short chapters that only come out once every five months. _

_So I am going to take the time to make my chapters nice and long and detailed, and devolop my characters even more._

_I am not giving myself a deadline. I know that sounds horrible, but deadlines are no good for stories. I want to try and have the first chapter out by Thanksgiving, but it may come out sooner, or maybe later._

_I will continue_ Merely Me and the Cat _and_ Time Warp _for your enjoyment (wink wink) because those are stories that do not require as much detail as I feel this one now demands._

_Thanks again, friends._

_Love,_

_Scratch O'Brien_


	8. A New Years Note From the Author

_January 4, 2008_

_Oh my golly gosh! It's 2008! GAH! Well, your favorite attention whore (in case you didn't know, that's me) is back, and she is writing this not to inform you all that Chapters 1, 2 and 3 of _Quicksilver _are up and have been for a while now. _

_I am anxiously awaiting reviews, and I would really appreciate them from the people I rewrote the story for! Speaking of which, shoutouts to Swindler and xLittlexItalyx for reviewing every single chapter of the rewrite without fail! Whoo-hoo! I give you guys long-overdue cyber-chocolate-chip cookies :) _

_I hope you all enjoyed the holidays! I am sorry for not writing sooner (in case you actually did want to hear my shameless self promotion)._

_With loves and huggles,_

_Scratch O'Brien_


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